This is one of many futures…
Smoke rose like large columns of darkness, skies covered, no light shining over the destruction below. The fetid smells of death and burning spread across the place like a herald of the end to come. As you see, once upon a time these streets were of gold, bright, lively voices walking up and down, praising the One ruling over their heads. But now? It was all gone. The beautiful hanging gardens nothing but ashes, statues toppled and defaced, crushed to pieces. Destruction had come to New Asgard with the banner of Midgardian freedom.
For more than a decade he had ruled, he had years to prove himself in the eyes of the Allfather, but all was wasted in paranoia and greed. King Loki’s final day come like fate intended: surrounding in chaos and devastation. Rebel forces had taken over the city, quickly marching like angry ants towards their only objective, the large and golden palace that stood gloriously in the middle of New Asgard. The King had seen every ally made turn their backs on him, cowardly fleeing at the first change, only a few of Asgard’s guards remained loyal enough to die on his name. There was no one else to stand besides him. King Loki was alone.
Up in the highest point of the palace, in the luxurious throne room, surrounded by high windows that would work as walls, King Loki watched. His sight locked on his city on fire, burning slowly beneath him. He was fighting the tears that filled his eyes, absolute dismay washing over his façade. The scene he was watching was desolating. Fire, smoke, a sky so red as the blood he had spilled in past years. All he built in whims of greed, tumbling down in mere hours. Slowly he removed his crown, fingers gripping on a metal horn before slowly letting it slip down on the polished floor. The clanking sound startled the only person with him, a young man that had recently joined the guards ranks. Perhaps at the worst of times.
“This can’t happen! This…” The King motioned at the spectacle beneath, his hand a claw that clenched into a fist, “…This can’t be!” His knuckles were white, fingernails digging on the skin of his palm. A growling scream of desperation escaped from his throat, fist banging on the window, nearly cracking the glass. He huffed, turning to look at the scaredy guard.
“Where is everyone?” He lied; the king knew. “Why aren’t you doing something?! Move! Call th—”
“B-but sir, sorry, your majesty, I-it’s only me left.” The young guard mumbled.
He was in denial, Loki, the King didn’t want to face that the imminent defeat was looming over him. He was King Loki after all! Rightful ruler! Powerful, mighty, not the scrawny joke he was took as for so many, and many years.
He yelled again, hands quickly covering in green flames; in a moment of rage, he threw two bolts against the cracked window, finally breaking the glass which fell on the burning city like twinkling diamonds. Immediately a gush of wind entered the room, Loki’s hair wildly waving the wind, his cape as well, the King’s face contorted in a rage never seen before. “We CAN’T let this happen! We CAN still defeat them! Those weaklings!!” Loki shouted, startling the poor young hard once again.
“Y-your majesty, sir. May I suggest…we…I-I don’t know…” The guard took a deep breath, bracing himself for the consequences of his spoke word, “…that we should…Surrender?”
The King’s voice became an unintelligible screech as he pounced towards the guards, his boots stomping the floor with the two or three strides he gave. His hand closed around the guard’s throat, squeezing. The poor young man could only whimper as he felt his feet leaving the ground, Loki lifting him up to be at his face level. There was a moment of absolute silence, wind whistling through the broken window, Loki’s face almost red, Loki’s ire exuding from every pore. But everything had s shifting change, in the span of mere seconds.
The King’s façade quickly turned into one of confusion.
“Why…?” Loki mumbled, his body whole body trembling as he released the guard. He took a couple of steps back, hands clutching on his stomach. Loki’s eyes never left the young guard, who was now standing in a posture of defiance, bloodied sword in hand.
The King whispered again, “Why…?”, asking, looking for answers on the last minutes. He looked down at his hands, all crimson colored with the blood that was pouring from his fatal gash. “WHY?!” He screamed again, unable to contain the tears of despair.
The young man didn’t reply, his face became cold stone.
And just like that, he simply charged against the King, pushing and shoving him, making him lose his balance. Loki hadn’t noticed but he was too close to the edge of the broken window. His arm flayed, fingers gripping to the frame of the window. “No. NO!” Loki shouted, denial taking over him, this couldn’t be! No, not like this!
The young man approached, eyes glinting with the coldness of a murderer, “No one really liked you.” His words poison, a last stab on the ego of their pompous king. He shoved the King one last time.
Loki couldn’t grip on anything, his hands bloodied were slippery around t the window’s frame.
He fell.
In this last moments he couldn’t feel a thing, his body was numb, the sound of the wind in a free fall deafening. Heart racing, his brain going through all his life, his wrongs and goods. This was it.
The end.
There was no turning back.
And just as he was about hit the ground, everything went black.
“This is one of many futures”. A female voice whispered.
“NO!” Loki gasped, eyes opening as he scrambled on his seat. Pearls of cold sweat were covering his forehead, panting he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was back in the dark cave of the Völva, Asgard’s witches. We are now in the past, Prince Loki was a teenager, barely an adult. His scrawny body too skinny for his loose clothes. Standing before him was a woman, tall, dressed on dark blue flowy robes and golden jewels, her head crowned with fiery red hair, and freckles running across her nose and cheeks.
She was Sigríður, matron of all the Völva, teacher of Frigga herself. “You know we decided to please your mother by letting you in.” She said, looking down at the young skinny man, “I could had said no. But we couldn’t let your natural abilities to go untapped.” She half smiled, holding in her hands a golden yarn coiled around her wrist and fingers, “Young Prince Loki, your magic is still weak. Your future sight is laughable.”
The prince looked away in shame, cleaning his forehead with the back of his hand.
SIgríður sighed, slowly kneeling down before her young apprentice, “You only saw a glimpse, but not the whole thread.” She untangled the yarn in her hands, “We can look at the whole, from beginning to end. You will do, one day. Don’t fret, your majesty. As the seiðr isn’t something to learn in a day.” She looked straight into the prince’s eyes, “Your thread is special. Don’t forget.” She placed the yarn on Loki’s hands, “And remember we can’t change what the far future shows us. What you saw, might happen. Might not.”
Slowly the woman stood up, “Now, go. There’s much for you to learn young Prince.”
“Yes, Matron SIgríður.” Loki whispered, looking down at his hands and the yarn that had inevitable tangled between his slender fingers. A raggedly breath escaped him, a flash of his vision assaulting him. There was blood in his hands. He fell. He died. He was King.
“One of many futures.” The prince repeated, closing his hands, wondering which of those many futures, was really his.